


Never to Rise

by Eshnoazot



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Both are bastards, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Other, Poorly dealing with trauma, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), names have power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20257789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: To be Fallen is not a single action, they will soon learn, it is an enduring and everlasting rejection which forces bodies as far away from Heaven as possible. It is like gravity, it is like betrayal, it is like collaring a dog with electric and zapping when they drift too close to the fence. It is a purposeful rejection that knocks the grace from your very being and then locks the door behind you, even as you hammer and howl.





	Never to Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I 100% ship this after reading a bunch of Cherubuni's Beelzebub/Gabriel fanfics here on the AO3. They're fluffy and wonderful, and they'll soothe your soul after reading this angst fest.

Beelzebub isn’t the first name they try on when they crack open burning eyes and gaze upon their feathers melting into rock. Humans will one day glance down at the fossilised feathers and predict terrible beasts of old, and they’re not exactly _wrong_, but for now, these feathers burning into rock threaten to bind them into the very soil. Celestial Grace has been stripped away, and there is a jagged feeling somewhere deep inside them. They struggle against the change, against the fetters that would entomb them in stone, and can feel the agony as these feathers snap and breakaway.

They’re not special by any means, just another tortured creature trying to assemble a being from broken shards of personhood, which had once been held together by _divine _light. They were not the first to wake either, because they can hear tortured screaming breaking from parched throats. The world is much too bright and much too _dark_, and so terribly hot that sulfuric acids are dripping down their forms like sweat. The heat is unbearable, _oppressive_, it forces them down. It pushes them deeper and deeper under the tides of hell, trying to drown them and fill their lungs. It burns hot, like unholy water, and races scar tissue down their sides. They can feel their face blistering and forming thick boils where the skin is pressed into the swirling sulfuric quicksands.

To be _Fallen_ is not a _single _action, they will soon learn, it is an enduring and everlasting rejection which forces bodies as far away from Heaven as possible. It is like _gravity_, it is like _betrayal,_ it is like collaring a dog with electric and zapping when they drift too close to the fence. It is a purposeful rejection that knocks the grace from your very being and then locks the door behind you, even as you hammer and howl.

Sulphur is burning in the air, and Beelzebub is searing their throat with every desperate inhale. There are flies descending already, crawling insects that haven’t yet learned that demons cannot _fester_ like earth-made flesh. The flies descend and Beelzebub roars with a new kind of rage; one _hollower_ and more desperate with endless burning anger than the soft anger of Heaven. If demonic rage is born from the craters of Fallen Angels, it was only because Heaven birthed unholy rage first when they first decided to cast out their unwanted kin.

Beelzebub is not the first to awaken, but they are the first to _rise_.

It is the earliest memory they can recall in any clarity; the crunching of metaphorical bones, the snap of metaphysical eyes, the movement of mouth to repress agony rather than sing songs of praise. The endless bearing down from Heaven, the pressure threatening to bore them down into the Earth. It feels like _too much_, but Beelzebub was a revolutionary, a _rebel_, and they can remember the strength and unity in the angelic marches. One foot, two feet, and they _burn and burn_ until Beelzebub is free from the lakes of sulphuric acid.

Their wings are slick on their back. Moving in places they should not move, carved apart by celestial swords and abandonment and exile. They are ribbons of dead meat, blistering and festering, but eternally and ethereally crafted from the undying occult.

The flies are still hovering, singing their own melodious chants of praise to the divine for the providence of _food_. They dive and Beelzebub roars again and invents a second new kind of rage. This kind is assertive, ineffably stalwart and unwilling to give anything. They have already given _too much_. The flies do not feast upon Beelzebub that day, but they hang around in hopes of lesser pickings. Beelzebub screams and screams, not out of pain but endless rage, in every colour and shape and size until they have given form and name to every different kind. The new Demons of the universe are crawling out of the pit, flocking towards the rage like a lighthouse. They don’t stop coming until Beelzebub is finally out of rage to share.

It isn’t until they are finally empty of rage that Lucifer himself lets out a chilling laugh.

“And your name, Fallen?” He casts terribly empty and endless eyes upon them, and Beelzebub is overcome with a sense of _dread_ and _hope_.

“I’m,” They say, and then can’t find the sound and taste of their own name, “_Nothing_.”

Their name is wrapped up in angelic grace, something stolen and forgotten. It feels like the crafting of a star, the creation of a planet. It feels like the gossamer spinning of vapours and gases, the weaving of metals into planetary cores, the fine painting of colour onto nebulas and the forging of angelic melodies that sound like vibrations and buzzing. It feels like a gaping wound that is empty when they reach for it, wrong and startling until they learn to never reach again. They instinctively look to the sky to find the shape they _know_ is out there but can’t find which direction in which to look.

They are lost.

“Well then, _Nothing_,” Lucifer laughs, “Let us craft something new and _unholy_.”

The words don’t sound right when it isn’t explained in the oldest tongue. He had asked their name, and they had replied “I am nothing/without value” because language was new and fit the world as well as a shoe several sizes too small. It’s suffocating and imprecise and fallible. There had been nothing before that didn’t exist but was also valued. “Beli-ya’al” they had said, “_Beli-“_ without, _“Ya’al”_ value.

Without value, worthless – but language is new and so few words must convey such complicated meanings, that the words also mean “never to rise”. It is a lament, the creation of the first demonic omen, and Lucifer is looking at them so _speculatively_. There is a look in his eyes, sizing them up to cast them into a new role. The flies are buzzing still louder, giving praise to a new divine creature for rotting meats and new breeding grounds.

“Bĕli-yaal,” The unholy Lord replies, sounding out the new tones of earth-bound language, and so suddenly, they have been Named, “_Belial_.”

Belial is made for the pit, the angel of enmity, in the domain of darkness. Belial is dripping with acid and the desperation of someone who has achieved freedom at such a high cost and can only watch as the Morningstar takes to naming his new kingdom. They are a staggering, crawling, weeping, blistering, hungry and tortured people, but Belial can grasp at something intangibly _promising_ about those who followed when they fell. All the Fallen of their lot are angels of destruction now, walking in the laws of darkness. Belial can’t remember a _single name_, beyond that of Lucifer, who burns so terribly bright that it sears new eyes into permanent darkness. The battle is lost _perhaps_, but the _War_ is a promise which strums in open veins and offers a new central tenant where praise had once been.

So here, standing amongst rot and rank, they decide to work.

Time is a new concept, but soon G-d creates new creatures, something _without_ celestial grace. Beelzebub looks over the stolen blueprints for the younger species and feels something like nausea curl in their stomach. _Had she taken inspiration from watching her own Graceless Demons,_ they wonder for a second of utter devastation, _why are these humans to be beloved when we are not?_

A promising demon is sent up with a single command, and a forbidden fruit is consumed. The creeping crawling demon brings one of these fruits to them, his red hair feeling as bright as fire when he presents it. Belial turns it over in their hand and can’t see why it had been such a low-hanging fruit. The knowledge and sin had been in the act of plucking it, they decide, in the first act of destruction.

_We will all fall_, Belial thinks, when the Demon Crawly leaves to his new earth-bound role, _But you will love _them_._

The human creatures expand over the Earth, and Hell is still being constructed proper. There are hallways to dig out with broken talons and claws and bone wing-tips. They are creating and crafting again, and Belial can feel something whispering dangerously on the wind. Heaven is still in disarray, and both sides have taken to desperate measures to deal with a new task required of them. _She _has spoken to Heaven and told them to safeguard the souls of the righteous and brave. Satan, once the Morningstar, has staked his claim for the unholy and evil.

Heaven and the new Kingdom are desperately rebuilding, trying to figure out to run two Kingdoms when there had once been one. Heaven is not prepared to take the first souls to die, and when these wailing souls are herded into the new Kingdom they cry out in terror – ‘_Sheol_!’ and Belial decides here that it is only right that if they name themselves, they should name their new home. Demons have broken teeth and rebuilding wings and mouths that are scarred and broken and horrific. They can only laugh until they declare themselves the people of Hell. Hell steals the first souls of humankind, while Heaven dithers over allowing impure sinful humans into their midst.

Belial thrives in the rebuilding, thrives deep in the tender organs of order amongst chaos. There are no ranks in the beginning, just chaos and suffering and Satan himself demanding something that was still unspoken. They walk the Earth occasionally, and humans are driven to inspiration. They cultivate idolatry, corrupt the men of Gibeah, tempt the sons of Eli, craft the insolence of Nabal and teaches Shimei to oppose. Belial is pleased, until the trumpets sound. The blood and guts of the universe are gathering flies.

The Archangel Gabriel meets them on the smouldering remains of Ekron, where demons are reduced to ash and nothingness, “I shall not comfort the oppressed until their path is perfect,” He says, “_I will not retain you in my heart, Fallen_.”

The idea of Gabriel dances on their peripheral mind, something that feels like the roaring wind and the shaping of clouds. It feels like the creation of acid to prompt tired muscles to rest, and the ineffable taste of water. The reality of Gabriel is a celestial sword held in tribute to a God that hasn’t spoken to Heaven since she declared Heaven to be a refuge of human souls. He holds a lantern for the dead of night, while the stars dance above his head. He has beaten his prized piece of green jasper into a jewel on the pommel of his sword. He is radiating with righteous rage and divine retribution.

They say Angels cannot dance, and perhaps that is also true of Demons – but there is hardly a difference in dance and fighting. Belial has no great Heavenly sword, but they have an advantage – Demons do not cower from pain, because pain is a familiar companion. While Angels will react like a child who has touched the fire once and cried, a Demon will reach out again and _again_. The flies, creeping around them since the Fall are eager to see if a piece of the divine will be on the menu, they dart into his eyes and nose and it makes him falter. Belial does not make foolish mistakes and does not leap away, so they dance and weave between sword and Angel until their fingertips are dancing across his chest like raindrops. Belial laughs, the flies buzz, and the sound seems to run down the length of the Archangels sword, setting a melody to this strange entanglement. It is not the angelic choirs of old, but it feels like something better. Gabriel’s anger is in principle only by the end of the interlude, and he looks wholly grief-stricken when he sheaths his sword and folds away his infinitely white wings.

The term Archangel isn’t as the Humans seem to understand it. They are just messengers, called to perform missions with sword or pen or voice. Belial knows that they are not his mission today, only because they part when their respective sides are calling them away. A truce has been called; the battle is still on but has been postponed for another day. Gabriel is thrumming with the desire for finality, for some kind of resolution.

His form of resolution though is a heavenly _victory._

It is not the same thing _at all_.

Belial can see Michael and her tawny wings across the boundless horizon, holding a holy spear in one hand, green palm branch in the other. They can feel the ghostly afterimages of the long dead Raphael staring down in horror from between the stars, can feel Uriel weeping up in Heaven while clutching his flaming sword, can see even Sandalphon – all are creating new forms of anger as a final showdown is delayed. They will be patient, however, because the anger of angels is a quiet and righteous one. Belial stands their ground while the divine is recalled but standing still feels like _Falling_. They wonder only for a brief second if Gabriel can see the hordes of Demons who will always be ready to face even an Archangel _swordless_.

Demons do not fear pain.

_Love is like an ocean_, this same angel will tell them one day, and they’ll scoff in return because it is so easy to say that _Love is endless_ when that same ‘Love’ is given in unequal measure. Gabriel has always been a favourite child. Standing under the stars, growing dimmer by the day, Belial can’t dare to entertain the thought they might have once been loved.

The bright fires light up the night, as the humans arise bruised and battered, bleeding and broken from the mud and filth of a battle. The Lord of the Flies alone walks the remnants of human streets unmarred as the flies’ feast in pleasure and rapturous _ecstasy_. They gorge on any flesh – that of the dead and those _alive_, and the buzzing grows so loudly that they can almost forget the faint memory of heavenly drums.

It is so terribly beautiful. The human children of Ekron call them and worship them as _Ba'al Zəbûb_. It is too easy to worship what survives, which will always be the fire and the flies.

Hell is so chaotic when they return, demons fired up from a battle that was not concluded, and all that rage is directionless. Lucifer is _sulking _in his throne room, looking impossibly unconcerned as he ponders The Great Plan. It’s far _too much_, and again, they know far too well the danger of too much. Belial, _Ba’al_ _Zəbûb _is inventing a whole new kind of rage when they lead a revolt against Lucifer that gets so out of hand so quickly that they nearly _overthrow _him.

“You fought an Archangel, and they call you Prince of Flies,” Satan notes when they are finally crushed, and a tiny Demon is staring back through swollen eyes and cracked teeth. Their boils are boiling inside their skin when Satan throws them to the ground. The flies are swarming around them, hungry for flesh and meat, one way or the other.

“Perhaps I should make you a Prince after all. Prince _Ba’al Zebub_. _Convince_ me.”

It is not a _kindness_, not _trust_. It is the recognition that they are very dangerous and very _very_ good at what they do. It is the recognition of a weapon that just needs the incentive to direct that force outward, to stabilise a reign. It is the offer of a new purpose on a greater scale. It is not a choice.

They describe the destruction reaped through tyrants, demons worshipped as gods, priests excited into lust, jealousy in cities and murders spreading like wildfire. It is chaos and devastation which is threatening to wipe every human from the face of the Earth, and they are still vibrating from the desire to tear out the throat of every Angel so they might understand the what _Falling_ feels like, for just a split second. Their Lord looks like he wants to devour the world whole when they finish speaking.

_Ba’al Zebub_ works the name of a Prince around their mouth, tasting what was offered with each of the seven sins hanging over their head. It feels like human _approval_, but it could be made to feel like human fear and awe. There is that taste of_ promise_ again, and it tastes as good as rotting flesh to maggots. It needs to be crafted, needs to be forged in hellfire, and tempered with decay.

“Prince Beelzebub,” They determine, and it sinks down into tired skin like something finally _right_, “As you wizzzh _My Lord_.”

Beelzebub is dedicated, and Princeship comes with responsibilities that even they fear to fail. Hell is exploding, clay tablets became scrolls and then became meticulously handwritten papers in the incomprehensible script of Russian doctors. Through it all, the flies tend to their body like vestal virgins to a dying god, ancient temple tenders giving glory and praise to a creature who ensures them life and death and all between. There is something so darkly wonderful in it – the life coming forth from death, and the God-created fat maggots that create _despair_.

They tell Archangel Gabriel this much the next time they see him. Around his neck is a garland of flowers and herbs. Beelzebub can see rue, angelica, masterwort, myrrhe, valerian and marygolds. There is a crown of butterburr and roses in his hair which he has blessed with the divine. He is a picture of heavenly kindness and divinity, while they are filthy with dirt and soot. Beelzebub imagines their flies nestled in their hair, as a form of a living crown, before even they leave them to seek newly dead meat. When a sickly child passes, he leans over to cast it on its head like a grand act of divine mercy.

Beelzebub rolls their eyes at the pantomime display.

Still, Gabriel ignores them and instead fixates on the heavy fat flies buzzing around the village in clouds so dark they look like intangible spectres. One angelic blessing is a drop of water in the face of an avalanche of pestilence, but Beelzebub knows that child will survive this test-run of the apocalypse. The Archangel is looking far less angry at the Demon who slides up to him than usual, and far more angry at the carnage around him though. A new kind of anger is being created here, anger at the injustice of others suffering.

“The _Great Pezztilence_,” Beelzebub names the sickness, gives it _power,_ “The pneumonic plague, bubonic plague and zzepticemic plague.”

Gabriel is _furious_.

It’s a good look on him, and Beelzebub admires it with an edge of unrestrained delight.

“That was ourzz,” Beelzebub continues, “The flagellantzzz, prozelytizerzzz, perzecution – that waz yourz.”

Gabriel is uncharacteristically silent, and his mouth is pressed so tight that his lips are pure white. Beelzebub is patient though. The body collectors are making their rounds, throwing human corpses on their wooden carts. Buboes, decaying black spots, rancid pus and bloody froth drips into the soil, and the flies start following the cart where a festival of consumption will be celebrated at the mass grave. There is no guarantee they will make it into the ground: Beelzebub had only dropped past to talk to Gabriel after tempting a Pope to consecrate the Rhône River to deal with the endless dead. There are bodies floating down it even now.

The world will become a maze of sepulchres, an endless mausoleum to the failures of the Heavens. Beelzebub inhales deeply, the effluvia of death, relishing in the purification, the cleansing of the world. Brother abandoning brother, fathers and mothers refusing to see and tend to their children. The priests are dying off in this world: they are already all rotting in Marseilles and Carcassonne.

It’s a ghastly retelling of the great rift in Heaven.

“There are 200 million dead,” Gabriel flatly retorts, “We can’t wage a war like this. Heaven is barely coping with the administration requirements to suddenly take in half of humanity. I can’t imagine Hell is coping much better.”

It’s remarkably practical to the extent that Beelzebub agrees.

“A deal then,” Beelzebub buzzes, “Rulezzz of engagement.”

Gabriel’s lip curls, “We each sort this clusterfuck out in our respective sides, and agree to never burden each other with this level of work ever again?”

Beelzebub inclines their head.

“One reprezentative for each of uzzz. A way to communicate between uz,” Beelzebub replies, because there are so many ways to punish a Demon by making them have to deal with the puffed-up pigeons from Heaven, and it comes with the added bonus of annoying said puffed up pigeon, “We each work on the Great Plan, and prepare for the war to come.”

“Quotas on miracles and temptations,” Gabriel counters, because he is a little bit of a bastard, “Let the humans make their choices. You cannot force someone to _Fall_ like you.”

Beelzebub bristles but lets a feral grin cover their face. They have too many teeth in their mouth, and all have been sharpened to cut through the sinew of Angels. Gabriel looks a little incredulous that a Demon is trying to unnerve him.

“_Crowley_,” Beelzebub decides because it hardly matters if the insignificant demon is killed by an Angel. Hell can make a martyr out of _anyone_, “You’ll chooze the Principality?”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel agrees, and has the gall to look down his nose at them, “I’ll send you the paperwork to sign. I assume you Demons know how to read?”

Beelzebub has been boiling in rage for centuries, it doesn’t affect them in the slightest, “I’ve been practizing for when I zzzign your death zentence.”

Gabriel actually cracks a grin; his tone is mocking when he speaks, “The victory of the Heavens will prevail, _Demon Prince_. I also want an official and open line of communication so we can keep _each other _in the loop for the sake of the gardens of earth. How can I trust that your representative won’t garble my message?”

“The deztruction of zervitude requires a few ztolen apples,” Beelzebub retorts, “I’ll make it happen. I’ll zee you on the battlefield yet, _you feathered prick,_ but thiz world cannot end before the Great Battle. I may just kill you myzelf then, though.”

They eye each other, but it is Gabriel who nods first.

“I’ll send you a message to organise it,” Gabriel agrees, with hardly a scent of good nature, “Just in case we need to schedule any board meetings to discuss new events. I should probably create a new form for this…”

By the time they actually get around to it, Beelzebub is gloriously delighted to insist that the communication between Heaven and Hell is restricted to a hellish network of fax machines. Heaven insists on pearly white paper, in return, which is delayed by Demons who keep trying to force yellowing scrolls into the loading tray. Gabriel responds with a miracle, imbedding all glossy white paper with a scent the humans start calling ‘printer paper smell’.

It’s Gabriel’s natural scent.

Beelzebub makes sure to send over forms written in gel-pens after Gabriel is foolish enough to ask them not to because he dislikes how it _smudges_ in the scanner.

Beelzebub is _delighted_.

There are several wars which come close to needing both sides of the universe’s worst family feud to work together. They alternate handling the bookings for such meetings; Gabriel chooses parklands and turns up ready to jog and talk because he delights in using his long excessive legs to his advantage, while Beelzebub struggles to match his pace. Beelzebub books the seediest rooms in motels that were brothels in all but name to watch Gabriel twitch disgustedly in his seat while Beelzebub drinks glasses of rectified spirits. Beelzebub crunches on the bones of ortolan, while Gabriel drapes a napkin across the bird’s head, to hide the shame of eating such a beautiful creature from the eyes of God. Beelzebub grinds its skull into gross matter while wondering why a tiny songbird was worth more mourning and grief than any Demon had ever been granted.

Gabriel won’t _soil his celestial temple_ with food. All food on this planet comes with the requirement for death, so Beelzebub creates elaborate tales of all the skeletons and blood and guts and sinew in every fruit, vegetable, meat and grain. They build elaborate tales of the suffering of plant-life, the silent screams only demons can hear. It’s a hilarious hobby for _about_ half a century. But beyond the jokes, there are important reasons why they keep meeting; sharing notes and commiserating over an eternity of thankless leadership without tipping a hand or allowing the other to sense a clink in their armour.

The flies are buzzing nervously when the Lord of Hell himself declares that a child has been born to him, and two demons are dispatched to deliver him to the originator of human sin. Crowley, the demon who created earthly sin, is set to deliver the personification of that. The sound of war drums sounds like buzzing hungry flies, endless screaming and fax machines until the child stands tall with amongst human children.

"When all of thiz is over, you're going to get to rule the world. Don't you want to rule the world?” they say but can only watch as the child _upsets _thousands of years of planned warfare. Beelzebub can feel the swords being sharpened in Hell, the battle-axes being polished, the fax machines clunking and spluttering.

They can feel it, have always known that names invoke power. The Hell beast is now some kind of domesticated creature that wags its tail, and Adam is curly-haired and _cute_.

The mistake was in naming him Adam.

If names invoke power, there is so much power in naming him a person, an individual, naming him after mankind and humankind and naming him after the start of something. They have crafted the name of a reprise, a new chapter.

They have named him the _single most dangerous thing in the world_.

“I’m telling your father, young man!” Beelzebub admonishes, and it feels as powerful as blowing a puff of air against a mountain. Gabriel is nodding frantically in the background, the _absolute coward_.

After the child takes on his own father and rewrites history, the shit of a Demon Crowley sends them a _champagne-soaked drawing_ where he describes Gabriel as a stepdad who doesn’t really have any authority over the kid/antichrist but is there for moral support. Beelzebub is labelled ‘parent 2’ and Beelzebub wants to burn it but tucks it away in a sealed drawer to give themselves inspiration for torture when Crowley finally disincorporates his fool self. They are very patient.

They are no _parent._

They are also not so angry anymore.

But they might still be as lost as when their eyes first opened to see feathers searing into stone.

The Great Plan might not be the Ineffable Plan, and something traitorous inside Beelzebub starts to awaken. Beelzebub forgoes the fax machine and calls Gabriel up with a tone that their voice has never been used for. They don’t have the right word to describe it _yet_, and they’re not sure if they want to empower it by naming it. It’s ineffable.

It’s the creation of something new, and _they don’t like it at all._

“We need to compare notez,” Beelzebub says, “What in the name of _Hell_ are those traitorz up to.”

“What in the name of Heaven,” Gabriel automatically corrects, and then pauses, “No, you’re right, Demon, traitorship _is_ in the realm of Hell.”

He sounds so very pleased to have made what he clearly considers to be a hilarious joke, and they don’t even have to think of a clever retort because the dismissive laugh that comes straight from their mouth does the trick. Gabriel grumbles on the other end but it has none of the bite that it should.

“I know a church that’zz been converted into a bar?” Beelzebub offers, “It’s been deconsecrated. Lotzzz of whizkey and ztained glazz windowzzz of your dumb face for you can practize your vanity.”

The pews of the church have been hacked apart into chairs for sticky tables. Beelzebub herds Gabriel off to a specific table; a little demonic miracle has gone into this, just for their own amusement. Gabriel sits and immediately looks revolted by the smears of chicken wings, beer and cigarette burns. They share notes, surveillance photos, reports, instinctual feelings – the picture it paints is one that makes Gabriel look_ flummoxed_.

“What do you think we should do?” Gabriel asks, looking down at the evidence they have collected like a shepherd who has come back to find his sheep are all pigs. It’s such an earnest look, one with not quite endless trust, but certainly, trust in their skills and capabilities. Gabriel’s knee is pressed up against their thigh, and _it’s not intentional at all._

It’s the sickening proof that familiarity breeds, from too many meetings and casual ribbing. Somehow, they had gone from trying to fight with teeth and sword, to sharing a cosy nook in a place that might have been a middle ground. Beelzebub wants to be _sick_; Beelzebub wants to _furious_. Instead, they bristle at the word _‘we’_ that he uses and must avert their eyes from his face.

If Angels and Demons can be friends – if they can find common ground, then what was the point in _Falling_ anyway?

Behind Gabriel is a colourful window of the Archangel Gabriel, dressed in luxurious robes of green with gold trim. The sun is illuminating the glass, and cascades colourful light across the bar. When Gabriel sits, he hides the angel figure, but the stained glass halo radiates from his head, and glass wings erupt from his back. It’s a private little joke that Beelzebub thought would be funny; the image of an angel so fragile, with breakable wings and grace made of little more than tempered sand.

The more they keep looking at it, the more their stomach seems to twist and devour itself. Beelzebub is _furious _at this treachery, but this time the anger is directed _inwards_, and it feels like sulfuric acid washing them out from the inside. They can feel the boils forming deep within, and they want to scream again because _Falling _shouldn’t happen _twice_.

“_Kill them_,” Beelzebub replies as harshly as they can, even though they mean something far different. Gabriel straightens up in his seat in _disbelief_. They look straight at each other, and something is shared between them that’s too terrible to name. Gabriel’s knee shifts and the air grows colder.

It feels like the worst moment of _Falling_ all over again.

“It cannot be allowed to happen,” Gabriel agrees, although he is now smiling in a way that is all _wrong_, “It must be _killed_. An Angel and a Demon, it’s _unconscionable._”

Gabriel too means something vastly different, but neither of them is bogged down with such details such as meaning when the surface of words allows for more familiar ground. The sin that will one day swallow Gabriel up, may just be Pride. Beelzebub is Falling and Fallen, and _maybe_ Gabriel is too, but it doesn’t matter at all in the end.

“I’ll have Michael send down some Holy Water,” Gabriel continues, with a smile that had an edge of something breaking, “To _cleanse_ Crowley.”

Beelzebub flinches back, and it is the first time they have ever retreated. Every since that first dance, one with sword and one fearless, and finally they pulled away. It is the most dangerous part of any sword fight.

_Demons do not fear pain_ – and yet-

“Hellfire has alwayzzz burned any angelzzz who zzztray too cloze,” Beelzebub replies, folding their arms across their chest, “Perhapzz you’ll zpoil your celeztial temple when you _zmell roazting angel_.”

Beelzebub licks their lips dramatically, as Gabriel looks _furious_. The flies are buzzing around Beelzebub, they are panicking, and they land on the table to suck up beer juice and chicken fat. Gabriel takes his fist and slams it into the table, and the buzzing _stops._

“I’ll have my people contact yours,” Gabriel retorts, and then stands up and is gone before Beelzebub can even exhale. They are _Falling_ harder than ever and falling had always been one third betrayal. The smell of printer paper is heavy as Beelzebub sets fire to the evidence they have gathered and so practically sorted. Perhaps they were the first to awaken, but this time they are not the first to rise, and it bears down as oppressive as ever.

Beelzebub shakes and shakes in something that might have been anger but might have also been regret. There is no time to ponder, no plans to cultivate and follow. Just the utter realisation that perhaps now, the only thing to do was capture the _insolent little snake_ that can rearrange the world _for the sake of an angel_. There is no great resolution to be had, no final showdown, just an eternity stretching on without a lifeboat to cling to. Beelzebub watches the fire burn at the table, and with a great roar, lets it _consume _the former church. The humans flee, but Beelzebub waits to watch the glorious stained glass window twist and melt from the intensity of hell’s finest flames.

It is no resolution, no _conclusion._

But then, Beelzebub goes _home._

**Author's Note:**

> It was intentionally written to feel unfinished because their story *is* unfinished. For the first time ever, there is no Great Plan act as an unwitting author. As Anathema burned the second book of prophecies, Beelz and Gaby-Baby are free to self-author.
> 
> The headcanon that Gabriel smells like printer paper (and vanilla) comes from Dobby.with.a.gun over on TikTok. 
> 
> I might be tempted to write a sequel if y'all enjoy this piece. :)


End file.
